I see big, white snowflakes starting to flurry like crazy through the windows by the bar. I’m in the most beautiful fucking place in the world, and I have no fucking clue what I’m supposed to do now.

Is there even a supposed to in this fucked up situation?

The bartender makes eye contact with me, probably sensing it’s the right moment. Of course. From the way I must be looking right now, sadly installed in a lone spot at a hotel bar, it can’t be too hard for him to guess that any fucking moment is probably the right one.

“What else will you be having tonight, my friend?” He thinks I’m in it for the long haul, too. I can’t be wearing my heart on my sleeve that fucking much—not that I care right now.

“Whiskey,” I tell him, letting him fill in the gaps because I’ve got a lot more on my mind tonight than my drink order.

“May I recommend a young malt from right here in Iceland? It’s kind of a whiskey. They distill it just outside of town.”

The consequences are coming hard and fast for me tonight. I didn’t ask for ‘kind of a whiskey,’ but that’s what I get for not being exact.

“Just pour me a double from that bottle of Glenlivet 12 I see up there. Neat. There’s enough ice and water outside, I don’t need to drink it too.”

This gets a laugh from the bartender. He must not think I’m that much of a fucking sad sack.

I’m just not normally a ‘sit at the bar and think’ type of guy, but the way things unraveled so fucking fast, I need to be that guy right now. I’ve got no other choice, especially after the bartender presents me with a glass of scotch on a wood coaster. It’s a very heavy pour, more than even the double I ordered.

I sip my whisky, trying to assess what I know for sure.

It’s my fault. That’s something I know. I saw it in Chloe’s face, and her eyes.

I felt it, and I’m still feeling it now. I fucked up, whether I meant to or not.

And no, I didn’t mean to. It’s not like I knew what was really going on with Thebadboys.net, and Mr. BadBoy, and Chloe. I still don’t, so it’s not like I intentionally misled Chloe.

Fuck, I can’t say that. Misleading people is part of what I do, it’s part of what a lot of people do on Thebadboys.net. It’s kind of the beating fucking heart of the whole thing.

I hear the room emptying out behind me. People leaving tables to go off and do whatever they’re going to do on this snowy night in Reykjavik—they’re probably just going back to their rooms and suites, their hot tubs and fireplaces, doing the same types of things I’m supposed to be doing...

There it is again: supposed to. Who the fuck am I to say what’s supposed to happen, especially when it involves other people?

Like the way everything is supposed to work out for me, since it always has in the past. Well, those assumptions need to go out the fucking window when it’s not just me, but someone else. Someone who I can’t stop thinking about, even right now.

I always knew there was something about Chloe, from the very fucking start, and I never denied that. What I never did was make the connection with what a senior editor at the Times once told me back in the day when I was going to be a journalist, before I started Thebadboys.net.

This was someone at the top of their field, a long, illustrious career and all that shit. In short, someone you’d think could lay some profound insight on you that could instantly change your life if they wanted.

Without naming any names, I’ll tell you what she told me over lunch one day:

“When you get seriously involved with someone, the most important thing to remember is to always be honest about everything, no matter how small. If you stray from that, they will find out.”

Doesn’t sound that profound, does it? That’s what I thought at the time. And it’s not like I think in terms of getting ‘seriously involved’ with someone. I mean, come the fuck on.

Yet I’m thinking about that now, halfway through my double scotch, since I did stray from that with Chloe. I had those same fucking thoughts earlier tonight when I finally told her about my son.

When we were first getting on the plane, she said she wanted to have a ‘serious discussion’ about how I make my living. It was lighthearted, because she just found out I have a private fucking jet, but she asked me.

And I told her the truth: I own a business.

I was planning to reveal the rest of it in time. I mean, if you’re on a date with someone and they ask what you do for a living, you can just say ‘I work in a bank’ or ‘I’m in advertising’ or whatever. It’s not like you need to start spouting every fucking detail right of the bat.

That’s not lying, right?

Saying that you own a ‘small company’ when you actually own Thebadboys.net, on the other hand, is totally fucking lying and I’m totally fucking guilty.

I decided to forego honesty, and, wouldn’t you know it, that shit came to light and blew up in my face in the worst way it could.

I’m already getting close to the bottom of my expensive glass of scotch. I better figure this out quick, or I’ll need to order another round.

I do realize that the New York Times editor’s advice is spot-on, although it’s probably too late for that to make any fucking difference for me.

There’s something else I’m also starting to realize, and that’s just how much of a role that deception plays throughout the workings of Thebadboys.net.

Most users on the site know that things become much easier once you make a good first impression, and when that first impression is just a screen name and some text, it’s much easier to employ outside help than if you’re face to face at some bar or club.

And fuck, one thing that I really should have figured out by now is the ingenious idea of hiring women, who have a natural understanding of what would appeal to other women, to make the perfect first impression.

My drink is finished, but this is all just starting to make a lot more sense.

Just starting.

“One more round of the same, please.”

The bartender signals to me that it’ll just be a minute. He’s a few spots down, where he’s trying to decipher drink orders from gaggle of intoxicated, seemingly well-off American businessmen—the type of guys who are probably not too smooth socially, but can afford to employ help with the impression they make online.

Of course. I guess I’m still working on vacation, because I’m just realizing a thought that’s something I’m sure is rampant on the site now, and likely has been for a long time.

A man hiring a woman to pose as a man to attract women is obviously a deception, but the women who pose as men must assume that the deception only goes one way, and that they’re talking to other women. I’m sure they usually are.

Not Ms. Winters, though. Chloe, as Mr. BadBoy, was pretending to be someone else, talking to Ms. Winters who was pretending to be the same thing, both of us trying to appeal to fake personas we thought were real.

I hope that scotch comes soon because I’m getting motion sickness just fucking thinking about it.

But even with the layers of playacting and phoniness, we had such a great time during those chats. That’s another realization. I had a lot of fucking fun talking with Mr. BadBoy, and I could sense the chemistry.

That was part of the puzzle for me, that this person was so skilled they could get me, or anyone, to enjoy typing on a goddamn website so much—but now I know it’s Chloe, that’s what I liked so much about those chats. That’s why I became so determined to find out what his deal really was.

Even when I’m Ms. Winters and she’s Mr. BadBoy, it’s pretty great. When I’m Aaron and she’s Chloe, and we’re together, in real life, in the flesh, it’s fucking magical.

It was, at least.

The snow’s stopped, for now, the skies have cleared up and the northern lights are back. Nobody in the bar seems to give a damn. If you live here, it probably gets old after a while.

It’s tough to fucking imagine that, but I’m watching them dance and twinkle and it’s not doing much for me either, at the moment. The wind’s howling so loud against the outside of the window that I think the panes might break.

Maybe I need more scotch. I’m about to remind the bartender when I see he’s already pouring my drink.

Honest about everything, no matter how small.

Maybe that advice was a sly insult, knowing what business I’m in. Either way, it’s come back to haunt me.

I notice my next double scotch placed neatly on the coaster in front of me. As the wind keeps howling outside, I take it down in a hearty gulp.